Drarry and Music
by Cae Thomas aka CNL
Summary: Music-inspired Drarry drabbles.
1. This You Can Keep

Snow fluttered through the air, brushing against cool, pale skin as it fell to paint the ground white. Mist formed in the air as the man breathed in and out, wrapping his cloak tighter around him. He slipped into the trees, the snow along the ground lessening to almost nothing the deeper he moved into the forest. But the cold remained—the chill of deepest winter, freezing him inside and out. There was a clearing up ahead—he quickened his pace.

The trees opened to a small ice-covered pond. The snow was piling here, allowed in by the lack of coverage from above. The man stopped at the edge of the water. This was the place he had been looking for. He shed his cloak, tossing it over the fallen log at the pond's edge. The snow bit at his skin, but he ignored it. The cold was bearable, unlike so much else he had endured over the years. He pulled a golden locket from within his pocket, clicking it open and running a fingertip along the picture inside.

How he longed to look into the eyes one more time, to kiss those soft lips again. He shook his head, knowing it was useless. His lover was gone, and there was no way to bring him back again. He slipped the locket over his head, feeling the weight of it against his chest. He tested the ice with the tip of his foot. Thin, just as he'd hoped. Ignoring the beauty of the snowy clearing around him, he stepped on top of the fallen log. Spreading his arms wide, he let himself fall forward.

There was a sickening crunch as the ice gave way beneath his weight and then the sharp biting sting of cold was everywhere. He sank down, down into the icy depths of the freezing pond. He closed his eyes, smiling as he saw the oh-so-familiar face of his lover before him, reaching out a hand to show him the way home. It was cold. Oh, so cold.

But the cold was bearable.

And the pain was gone.


	2. A New Hope

The wind bit at his hands and face, lashing out with a bitter cold ferocity as he picked his way through the headstones. He kneeled before the grave beneath the tall oak at the back, letting his hood fall to his shoulders. Blonde hair fell over silver eyes as he traced the engraved words on the granite stone before him.

He hadn't believed them at first when he'd heard. How was it possible that one so strong had fallen to death? But there, here before him was the truth behind the supposed hollow words. This man had been the hope for everyone, and now he was truly gone. The blonde closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He'd spent his entire life hearing this man's name, wishing desperately to follow in his footsteps. And for what? Nothing, it seemed.

Now, he supposed, he would spend another lifetime trying to find a new source of hope. He drew his wand, conjuring a single red rose. He laid it before the grave, the scarlet petals in stark contrast to the smooth layer of snow that covered the ground. A single tear made its way down a pale cheek. The man shook his head, laughing darkly. How cliché, that he should feel regret now that it was too late to change things.

"I love you." The words were barely a whisper, scarcely louder than the wind. But they were true, and they were what he'd wanted to say for years. He stood and turned his back on the stone, walking away through the cemetery and leaving the grave of Harry Potter behind.


	3. Without You

He sat on one of the garden benches, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. The sun was warm on his face, but he didn't feel it. Bees were buzzing around the fresh spring flowers and birds chirped from the budding trees. He didn't see them, didn't hear them.

A few feet behind him, a little toddler ran wobbly towards his mother with a flower held in his chubby little hand. Hermione pulled the little boy into a hug, smiling and cooing to him as he giggled.

And still the man on the bench did not turn, did not acknowledge the budding life around him. How could he? As far as he was concerned, he was dead to the world. There was no life without his lover, and his lover had not yet returned.

Harry wiped a few stray tears from his face, feeling the ever present depression dragging him back into the darkness of his troubled mind. He had promised Hermione he would be cheerful this summer. But how could he be?

She wanted him to start dating, though she never asked. He could see it in the way she looked at him—Ron and her both. But he had promised to wait—forever, if need be. And that was just what he would do.

He had sat in the same place in the same garden, staring at the same spot on the distant hill rising against the horizon for three days in a row now. He hoped, though the hopes grew dimmer each passing day, that he would see the familiar figure of his lover coming over the hill at any moment.

He could practically see him, now, as he looked out over the fresh spring grass. Harry stood, his eyes widening in amazement. It couldn't be—could it? They had all given up hope, convinced he must be long dead. And yet—as unbelievable as it may seem—it _was_ him. Harry was sure of it. He took a few steps forward. A smile greeted him on a familiar face.

Harry fell to his knees, crying fresh tears—tears of happiness. The man kneeled before him, wrapping his arms around the brunette as he kissed away his tears. Silver eyes glittered happily behind white-blonde fringe.

"I'm here, Harry," Draco said quietly. "I'm home."


End file.
